


Bedside Manner

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Basically just Kink Bingo at this point, Begging, Dirty Talk, Egregiously erotic optometry, Exam-chair-enabled bondage, F/F, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Thoroughly non-sterile use of latex gloves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 20:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: “You can’t tell the difference between optometry and foreplay, and you’re blaming me?”





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

“Would you just – ” Georgina makes an exasperated sound somewhere near the back of her throat. “Esmé. _Focus_.”

The height of the exam chair puts the taller woman at eye level with her chest. “I _am_ focusing, darling.”

“On the _pen_.”

“Mm, but you’re much more fun to look at.” Esmé reaches up to toy with the lapel of her lab coat. “And it’s hardly _my_ fault this is so flattering.”

“You know, if you keep staring like that, you’ll give yourself eyestrain.”

 _Worth it_ , Esmé decides, but she lifts her gaze from the tantalizing shadow of Georgina’s cleavage to track the movement of the fountain pen between her manicured thumb and forefinger. With the task satisfactorily completed, she pipes up again, voice brimming with mock disapproval. “We really _must_ work on your bedside manner.”

“That’s funny.” Georgina doesn’t bother to look up from her clipboard. “I don’t recall you having any complaints about my bedside _anything_ last night.”

“And _you_ didn’t seem to mind me staring.”

“I also wasn’t trying to test your ocular motility at the time. Now hold still.”

Esmé reclines in the chair, narrowing her eyes as she decides which of Georgina’s buttons she most wants to push. “ _Make_ _me_.”

It’s not the fact that the exam chair features manacles that surprises her. It’s the fact that Georgina has apparently rigged them to engage remotely. “You know, Georgie,” she warns, testing the restraints and finding them delightfully unyielding, “this _really_ isn’t going to help me focus.”

“No, but it’ll keep you from blinding yourself on anything expensive. Try not to blink when you feel the puff of air.” Her right eyelid twitches and her left eye waters, but she doesn’t flinch. “Good girl.”

The optometrist’s voice remains brisk, but her choice of words sends a shivery thrill through Esmé’s abdomen, informing her in no uncertain terms that she’s not the only one in a button-pushing mood. “And this is your _standard procedure_ for good girls, is it?” she asks, her face a portrait of coquettish curiosity as she glances down at her immobilized limbs.

“Only when they’re distracting me.” Esmé opens her mouth as Georgina reaches behind her to return the tonometer to its place on her exam tray. “And before you ask, _no_ , Esmé, _no one_ is as distracting as you are, because everyone but you knows how to keep their hands to themselves. If they didn’t, I’d lose my license.” She rolls her eyes. “ _Again_.” Pulling a wheeled stool into place directly in front of the chair, she adjusts the height so they’re face to face and hands Esmé a small black paddle. “Cover your left eye.”

For once, she follows directions without a fuss. “Now focus on my right pupil,” Georgina continues, her face scant inches away, her hand hovering near the outer edge of her field of view, “and tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

The answer is plainly two, but Esmé has had enough of compliance. “Enough to make me scream, darling.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she replies, still in the smoothly professional tone she adopts during business hours. “That little interlude in my office yesterday wasn’t enough? You need me to fuck you in my _clinic_ , too? Where I see my patients?”

She’s close enough that Esmé can smell spearmint on her breath, and the urge to kiss her is nearly overwhelming. “Your pupils are dilated, _doctor,_ ” she points out instead. “Care to tell me what that means?”

It’s a good thing she already knows perfectly well what that means, because Georgina’s response certainly doesn’t adhere to any legitimate optometric principles. “It _means_ that you’re an incorrigible deviant who can’t keep her legs shut.”

“Well, that might be easier if your exam chair didn’t have _ankle cuffs_ ,” Esmé huffs. “I hardly think _I’m_ the deviant here.”

“And I don’t think it matters which of us is the deviant.” There’s nothing professional about Georgina’s tone now. “What matters is which of us is in _control_ , and which one of us” – she pauses, hands closing over slender biceps like a set of living shackles as she leans in to whisper directly into Esmé’s ear – “is _not_.”

Hot breath warms her cheek, rigid iron chills her wrists and ankles, steely fingers dig into her arms, and Esmé wonders if Georgina knows this is her personal idea of heaven, or if it was just a lucky guess. “If you’re in control,” she asks, eyes falling shut, “what are you going to do to me?”

“Whatever,” Georgina begins, releasing her grip abruptly. “I,” she continues, unfastening the buttons of the silky red blouse. “ _Want_ ,” she concludes, brushing the fabric aside to survey Esmé’s bare torso with a self-satisfied smirk. “Now cover your right eye and tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

Black eyes fly open, incredulous. “You can’t _possibly_ be serious.”

“Let’s try that again,” Georgina replies pleasantly. “Tell me how many fingers I’m holding up _now_ , or you spend the next week with _none_ _of them_ in your needy little – ”

“ _Four_.” There’s a note of genuine panic in her voice. “Four, darling. You’re holding up four fingers this time.”

“Better. And last time?”

“Two.”

Making one final note on her clipboard, she tucks it out of sight on the exam tray with the rest of her tools and reaches for the glove on her left hand.

“Could – ” Esmé clears her throat and tries to sound nonchalant. “Could you keep them on?”

“And why would I do that?” She can guess, of course, but that tends to prove far less entertaining.

To her credit, Esmé’s reply contains not even a hint of shame. “Because I want to know what they feel like inside me.”

“That’s certainly a novel interpretation of the term _scientific curiosity_ ,” Georgina replies coolly. “And what makes you think you’ll be getting _anything_ inside you after all the bullshit you just put me through? I can do a routine exam in forty minutes, Esmé. Yours took two hours.”

“Well, I can’t help it if you assumed I’d be _routine_ , can I? _Honestly_ , Georgie, I thought you knew – ”

“Thought I knew _what_? Thought I knew you couldn’t even make it through an _eye exam_ without getting all hot and bothered? Is that it?” She leans forward and her voice softens, but doesn’t sweeten. “There’s a word for that, you know.”

“Then go on,” goads Esmé. “Say it.” A pause stretches between them, but she doesn’t look away. 

“ _Slut_.”  

It’s one syllable – vulgar, crass, utterly offensive on every possible level – and yet from Georgina’s lips, it’s more than enough to render the City’s sixth-most-important financial advisor dizzy with need. “ _Yes_. Again.”

A lascivious grin spreads over Georgina’s face. “Dirty _slut_ likes being called names? You’re obscene, Esmé. Oh, today you can blame the cuffs, but we both know you’ll spread your legs for me anywhere I want, won’t you?”

“ _God,_ yes,” moans Esmé, her hips bucking helplessly. “Touch me, darling, _touch_ me…”

Fingertips drag up one slender arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “What, here? Or maybe here?" She cups a small, firm breast, relishing the way Esmé squirms when she palms the nipple. 

“ _Lower_ , Georgie.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.” Georgina reaches down to push Esmé’s skirt up her legs, exposing her heated flesh to the cool air of the clinic before brushing her lips with the first two digits of her right hand. “Suck.”

Instantly, hungrily, Esmé wraps her lips around her fingers, tongue swirling around and between them. The gesture is beyond gratuitous; had any additional lubrication been necessary, the show of dominance would have solved the problem at its source, but when the hand in her mouth begins to pull back, she follows instinctively. Georgina’s left arm slides around her waist beneath her open blouse and pulls her forward to perch at the edge of the chair. Her wrists push against the restraints at an awkward angle, her shoulders wrench to just the sublime side of painful, and as her back arches, her bare chest brushes against the silky fabric of the optometrist’s lab coat.

She must have miscalculated earlier. _This_ is heaven.

“Now,” Georgina asks, slipping her spit-slick fingers from Esmé’s mouth with a lurid _pop_ ,  “remind me again where you want these?”   _  
_

There are moments – there always have been, from the day they met – when each of them knows with perfect but unspoken clarity what the other needs. There are moments when, giddy with liquor and iniquity, they can’t help themselves. There are moments when all either of them wants to do is stay in bed, kissing and caressing until the world falls away and their rough edges grow smooth.

And then there are moments when their rough edges fit _perfectly_.

 _You know what she wants. One syllable. Vulgar, crass, utterly offensive on every possible level._ Esmé’s pulse pounds in her ears, but she meets the stormy grey stare like a challenge. “My _cunt_ , Georgina. _Now_.”  _  
_

Apparently the moratorium on making demands has lifted. Gloved fingers curl into her, the latex imparting an alien sensation to familiar movements, a reminder of exactly where she is and what she’s doing, and Esmé lets out a low, shuddering moan.

After a few moments, the arm around her waist tightens. “Tell me how it feels,” Georgina hisses against her flushed cheek. “You’re the filthy little _degenerate_ who wanted to know, so _tell me_.”

“Mmm, it’s – ohh, _fuck_ , your _fingers_ , just keep – ” A quick twist of those fingers and she interrupts herself with a gasp. “ _God_ , it’s _bizarre_ , shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t be so _close_ , _shit_ , Georgie, _all_ your fault…”

Gravelly laughter fills her ears. “You can’t tell the difference between optometry and foreplay, and you’re blaming _me_?” 

“You’re the one in that _coat_ , darling,” she says, struggling to focus as the pace quickens, “with that waist and that _rack_ , and you’re the one who kept _touching_ me _, fuck_ – ”

“I was _examining_ _you,_ Esmé!”

“You were _teasing_ me,” Esmé insists, “and you know it, and you’re teasing me _now_.”

Georgina slows her hand and regards her with a maddeningly placid expression. “Do you want to come?”

“ _Yes._ Oh _god_ , yes.” Her voice has taken on a frantic edge that sounds foreign to her own ears.

To Esmé’s absolute dismay, Georgina withdraws her fingers, releases her hold on her waist, and crosses her arms as she shifts backward on the stool. Head cocked to one side, she smiles a slow, supercilious smile. “Then _b_ _eg_.”

Esmé Squalor has always prided herself not only on the fact that she doesn’t beg, but on the fact that none of her conquests has ever dared to ask her to. When it comes to Georgina, however, she’s come to appreciate the rewards of allowing lust to conquer pride, so after a moment’s hesitation, she closes her eyes, takes a steadying breath, and begins.

“Please.” The word feels unwieldy in her mouth. “ _Please_ , Georgina.” The addition of her lover’s name softens it, makes it pliable. “Please, darling, _please_ let me come,” and this time she’s honing it, sharpening the word into a tool, bending it to her will.

When her litany fails to elicit any tangible response, she opens her eyes, but Georgina is no longer seated in front of her.

She’s on her knees.

Esmé forgets to breathe.

Balanced on her calves with her legs folded neatly beneath her, looking up expectantly from under the dark fringe of her hair, Georgina reaches up to stroke her bare thighs. “And which one of us is in control _now_ , hmm?”

It sounds like a trick question, but it fools no one. “You are,” Esmé replies, immediately and unequivocally, and the smirk she receives in response is the one that normally accompanies the phrase _you’re damn right_. Nevertheless, she catches something like pride behind the tortoiseshell spectacles as Georgina lowers her head.

Esmé finds herself supremely unprepared to handle the combination of sensation and image, but she can’t escape the former and she categorically refuses to close her eyes on the latter. “Georgie,” she whimpers, “oh god, Geor _gi_ na…”

Georgina’s tongue plays over her with a fluttering motion she’s never quite worked out how to emulate. “ _Fu-u-uck_ ,” she groans after a few speechless moments, “so _fucking_ good at this, darling, _oh_ , that’s _perfect._ ” The slick-gloved hand on her left thigh squeezes lightly, an acknowledgement and a question, and she replies with a ravenous growl in her voice. “ _Yes_. _More_.”

Following the word “perfect” with the word “more” probably sounds greedy, _but then again,_ she reminds herself, _greed is good._ Three fingers sink into her with just enough force to stretch her to the edge of pain. _Greed is **very** good._ “ _Hard_ like that, _yes_ , love it when you’re rough, _ohhhhhgodyeslike **that**_ ,” and she’s losing control of her voice now, words slurring together and syllables separating of their own accord, punctuated by the slippery, indecent sound of Georgina’s fingers plunging in and out of her, quick and deep and bordering on brutal. 

Keening little cries wrench themselves from her throat and this time she’s begging by choice. “ _Please_ , darling, so close, _sofuckingclose_ , _yes,_ make me – _unh –_ make come for you, _please_ , Georgie, _please_ , I’m yours, just make me _come.._.”

A desperate, throaty sound reaches Esmé’s ears. For a moment, she assumes that she’s the one producing it, but the reverberation registers in her core rather than in her chest, and while the vibration isn’t sufficient to tip her over the edge, the realization that Georgina Orwell is not only kneeling in front of her with her face buried between her legs, but apparently enjoying the experience enough to _moan_ most certainly is.

Her fingers clench, instinctively if fruitlessly grasping for a handful of sleek brown hair, and Georgina’s name tumbles from her lips as the morning’s pent-up tension breaks somewhere deep inside her. Buzzing warmth radiates outward from her abdomen and she leans back to bask in the afterglow, only to shoot bolt upright with a yelp a moment later when wet heat closes over her sensitized center.

“Geor _gie_ , I already – ”

“Came? Oh, I know.” Georgina pulls back to look up at her, lips slick and eyes gleaming. “That doesn’t mean I’m finished with you.”     

Esmé cries out as the tip of Georgina’s tongue slides delicately through her folds. “Ohgodohgodoh _god_ , too much, darling, too _much_ , oh, _fuck_ , I can’t, I _can’t –_ ” Her voice breaks and the instinct to thrash and writhe is overpowering, but with her wrists and ankles fettered and strong hands gripping her hips, she finds that she can’t so much as squirm. Light strokes flit methodically upward, too gentle to cause discomfort but firm enough to coax out a fresh wave of moisture.  

“Mm, I think you _can_ ,” says Georgina before returning to her task, peppering damp flesh with the soft, unhurried kisses Esmé is accustomed to receiving much earlier in the morning, and much higher up on her body. They prove equally adept at awakening her now. Each kiss is deeper than the last, testing the outer limit of how much pressure she can take before registering it as pain, and she can’t recall anyone else ever managing to tread that line quite so masterfully.

Then again, just now, she can’t recall much of anything.

Sensitivity amplifies stimulation, immobility renders it inescapable, and somewhere around the time supple lips wrap around her clit, she starts to shake, jolts of pleasure running up and down her spine as Georgina adds a steady flick of her tongue to the gentle suction. Her mouth opens – whether to urge her lover on or beg her to stop she isn’t quite sure – but her voice fails her completely. Without the twin distractions of movement and speech, sensation overwhelms her with the abruptness of a flipped switch.

Head thrown back and limbs pinned down, Esmé convulses in the chair as a current of electric ecstasy courses through her. Every muscle tenses. Every nerve screams. For one searing moment at the peak of the chaos, it feels as though her heart has stopped, and then she falls back boneless, only the restraints keeping her upright as her mind goes blank and black and blissfully silent.

She returns to herself in bits and pieces, one sense at a time. Taste comes first, the powdery tang of latex lingering in her dry mouth. As her breathing returns to normal, she catches the unmistakable scent of sex in the air, overlaid with the bittersweet bergamot of Georgina’s perfume. A metallic _clunk_ resonates in her ears and she winces as familiar fingers – bare now, warm and dexterous – massage her left wrist.

“I was right.” Even with her eyes closed, Esmé can hear Georgina smirking. “You could.”

“You might at least _try_ to sound a little less smug.” She heaves a dramatic sigh, opening her eyes to find Georgina perched once again on her stool in front of her. “I’m recently deceased, you know, thanks to a _highly_ unprofessional optometrist.”

“Moving on to thanks now that you’ve gotten so good with _please_ , are you?” Esmé opens her mouth to object, but then the optometrist’s thumb presses down on the mark left by the restraint and she grimaces instead. “This’ll probably bruise, but God knows you have enough bracelets to cover it up. Do you want me to give you something for the pain?”

“What, and take all the fun out of it?” Now it’s Esmé’s turn to smirk. “Not on your _life_ , darling.”

“Good girl,” Georgina murmurs for the second time that morning, and raises the slender wrist to her lips.


End file.
